


sidewalks, spires

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, have a pretentious title for the hell of it, in which phil is phil and everything is both sunshine and sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:45:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're such a knob, you know that?" </p><p>"I know," Paul says irreverently, grinning up at him. "And you're a twat, so we match."</p>
            </blockquote>





	sidewalks, spires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> Because Phil [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/191972593241296896) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/539142927965245440) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/287613629736566784) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/163252549217026049) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/75492465993453568) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/156034120093409281) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/99352318495039488) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/188988520839393282) [really](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/188988624396750850) loves Scholesy
> 
>  

i.

 

Phil is ten when he finally understands there are two three-word phrases his brother will never say. The first is 'I like Liverpool' and the second is 'I love you'.

Gary doesn't usually turn up for any of the schoolboy games because he's busy with United, running extra laps and coming home eight past, knees scraped, muddied socks around his ankles. He's got all these new mates, too, to the point that the lads from Bury Juniors call him a traitor and Phil doesn't know how much they're joking. 

But he's come today, this infinitesimally small under-twelves game, standing on the sidelines shading his eyes against the sun. Two of his new mates are with him, the tall one with curly hair and the small ginger one with blue-grey eyes that seem to burn into Phil as he looks. He catches Gary give him a short, simple nod and feels for some reason like taking on the world.

The whistle goes. Phil is acutely aware that he's not playing for himself as he hounds the ball, taking it off the other boy with a well-timed tackle and keeping at as he scrambles back up. He keeps the metronome ticking as they inch forward, closer to goal. It's two-nil, a man of the match display, it's running up to Gary afterwards with his prize and the breathless grin of a ten-year-old waiting to be loved.

Gary looks like he's struggling to say something, so the curly-haired boy steps in, natural as you'd like, as if he's been doing this for Gary for years. (Phil swallows the jealousy that bubbles suddenly to his throat.) "I'm Nicky Butt and that's Paul Scholes - we're from the academy too - you played a blinder out there." 

"Very good," Paul adds, his voice so incredibly quiet and gravelly Phil almost doesn't hear him.

"Better than Gaz," Nicky laughs, silently cuing Gary to join in.

"Yeah," Gary says eventually, staring at his feet. "Good game." 

He could have said  _ I'm proud of you  _ but doesn't. Phil pretends not to notice.

"Thanks for coming, Gaz," he says instead, ignoring the academy kids and looking at his big brother. Maybe it's the award in his hand that makes him brave, but he stammers out after a second, "love you." 

Gary looks up to meet his eyes and tries to smile. He reaches out to ruffle Phil's hair then breaks away, tilting his head to the road where Dad's just pulled up.

"Come on," he says, and Phil can do nothing else but follow.  
  


 

ii.

 

Phil is twelve when the blond boy arrives, and Phil is twelve when he thinks he first falls in love. 

He's got no one to explain to him what love is; Dad is Dad, Gary is Gary, and Tracey would never stop laughing if he asked. So perhaps the palpitations in his chest are nothing more than a mistake, and the strange, heady rush whenever David is nearby nothing more than a malfunction. But for the week after David arrives all Phil can think of is how holding his hand would feel.

The week after that, Phil realises that David can only see one Neville, and it isn't him. 

He stops being obvious when Gary starts, hanging behind when they meet like a training wheel being cast off. David is nice, and David knows his name, but David is nice to everyone, and David knows everyone's name. So it's David who teaches Phil that he  _ is  _ everyone, and consequently, he is no one at all.

Every time they go out Phil gets to come along, but it always seems like it's five boys and then him, hanging on the edge of the circle. David barely looks at him when there are brown eyes to hold his attention. Paul talks to him the most, but Phil knows it's only because he's 'Gary's little brother', and everyone loves Gary. 

Phil hates that he loves everyone. 

He knows that he would die for all of them. His big brother, wisecracking Nicky, quiet, shy Paul, never-serious Ryan, and - David. He would run through a brick wall if any one of them asked. This band of Manchester boys. And so he doesn't understand the belonging-not-belonging that aches inside him, like something he owns but isn't allowed to touch.

"Do you think people'd notice me if I was older?" he asks Paul one day. They're in his room after training, flicking through the TV channels trying to find a cooking show. Paul pauses his search to give Phil a blue-grey look of judgement. 

"People notice you," he grumbles, looking back at the screen. 

"You think so?" Phil quirks an eyebrow at Paul, surprised. 

"Yeah. That's why people don't generally walk into other people. They notice each other and get out of the way." 

Phil stifles a laugh in spite of himself and gives Scholesy a gentle shove."That's not what I meant, you berk." The ginger boy collapses onto the bed and yells for the ref, making Phil snort with laughter. "You're such a knob, you know that?" 

"I know," Paul says irreverently, grinning up at him. "And you're a twat, so we match." 

Phil makes a face, but doesn't follow up on the question. He almost wants to talk about David but decides not to, because Paul is Paul and wouldn't care either way. And sometimes these things, loving people who didn't love you and all that, were burdens meant to be carried alone.

They don't find a cooking show and settle for  _ A Question of Sport _ instead. Phil knows all the answers and Paul bets him five quid that he'll go on one day and win. 

"Sounds like easy money," Phil says, laughing. "Either you have misplaced faith in me or you're dumber than you look." 

"Call it an investment." Paul laughs too as the programme ends. "Anyway, I'll bet Gaz ten quid that you won't make it. He's all upright and'll cough up, but you're easy to bully into forgetting what I owe you." 

Phil mock-shoves him out of the door. If he'd hung around a minute or two longer he might have heard a quiet voice whispering  _ maybe it's you who doesn't notice the people who do _ . But his dreams are of gold, not red. 

 

 

iii. 

 

Phil is twenty-two when he doesn't play in the most important game of his life.  

He actually finds out two weeks earlier, before Blackburn. Kiddo knocks on his door and his eyes immediately flick to Gary, who nods at him to say (but doesn't actually say)  _ whatever happens, I'm proud of you _ . This could go one of two ways, and it goes the one he doesn't want it to - the gaffer taking off his glasses, looking Phil straight in the eyes and saying, "I'm playing you in the FA Cup final." 

If he tries hard enough, Phil can feel the ground crumbling beneath him. He swallows and opens his mouth and says, "it's the treble." 

He doesn't think he's said a word other than 'yes' or 'okay' to Sir Alex before. The gaffer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, his hard edges softening just for a while. "Bayern are an experienced team. Denis will know how to deal with them." 

What he doesn't bring up is how Phil sometimes plays right-back, and who's going to be playing there instead. Phil swallows again, this time his words, and walks back to the room. Gary is strumming his stupid twangy guitar and trying to pretend that he doesn't notice anything amiss.

Phil tells him the only way he knows how. "You're in the final," he says, grinning, giving Gary one of those awkward bro shoulder punches they never did. That's when Gary knows, but his expression doesn't change, just a brief "great" and a flash of sympathy. He looks back at his guitar, seems to have a think, and says, "Scholesy's back from his walk."

"Scholesy's only not playing because of the suspension," Phil points out. "If he hadn't gotten carded he'd be the first name down." 

Gary keeps on strumming. Phil eyeballs him then walks out and knocks on Paul's door. "Yeah," Paul says, sounding like he's just stuffed a bunch of custard creams in his mouth.

"I'm out," Phil says, straight this time. "Against Bayern." 

Paul silently offers him a custard cream. He never does that. Phil takes it and gags. "This is ridiculously sweet." 

"Just like my personality," Paul deadpans.

Phil snorts. "Of the two people in this room, I don't think you could be called the sweeter one." 

Paul rolls his eyes. "All right, Neville. You're sweet. You're so sweet you make a cinnamon roll taste like the Dead Sea. Now stop whining and let's talk about how we're going to fuck Newcastle up." 

Which they do, claiming the black-and-white scalp on a sunny day in London, Phil with the stepovers and Paul with the goal. It's a beautiful strike just outside the box and Phil yells in delight, racing over all the way from left-back to front-and-center to join the pile. Barcelona is only a city in his mind.

They line up to collect the trophy, Paul lagging behind as usual. Phil pumps it into the air and listens to the crowd yelling in approval almost with his eyes closed.  _ One and a half of three ain't bad _ , he thinks as he passes it off to Giggsy.  _ And no one can take this away from me.  _ He ambles back down to the pitch where Gary's already jumping around like an idiot, hollering UNITED at anyone who'll listen, one arm around Paul who looks terrified. Phil joins them, puts his arm around Paul's other side and yells with his big brother.  _ No one. _

 

The night of the twenty sixth of May he's putting on his substitute's jacket when Paul comes in wearing his not-playing one. They grin ruefully at each other while the rest of the team walk out. "Smash 'em for me," Paul jokes, his blue-grey eyes shining.

"If they come anywhere near the bench they're dead," Phil promises.

They don't come anywhere near the bench, and Phil doesn't go anywhere near the pitch for ninety two minutes. In the ninety third he's standing up looking at Becks take the corner, at Giggsy and Butty somewhere in the middle waiting for it, at Gary behind ready to mop up and go again, and something inside him - a little boy holding a red shirt - screams with belief. He's running on as if his number had gone up in lights even before Ole touches the ball, arms in the air. Before anyone else around him has even dared to breathe. 

He crosses the halfway line. A tremendous roar sweeps the stadium, exploding out of nothing at all as Ole stabs it high into the net - it rings loud in his ears like he's waking up from a nightmare and the clock is buzzing. Red. He reaches the scrum and buries himself in it, a sea of shirts and sinew and sweat, of screaming until their voices and hearts are raw. Red. Phil blinks as they break away to restart a game they know they've won, looks up to the stands where the not-playing jackets are sitting. Red, red, red. 

  
  


Later they make a tunnel for them, the two players who weren't even benched whose names will still rank higher on a quiz show episode of '1999 Treble winners' than Phil's. But all of that doesn't matter, not tonight, not really. Phil buries himself in the colour, in the meaning of team. 

  
  


Later still he walks out way past his bedtime onto the Spanish streets where they're still celebrating, stumbling around in their twos and threes drunk-singing  _ U-N-I-T-E-D _ . The lights are all on and ablaze; there will be no sleeping tonight. Three medals around all of their necks. Phil looks up and thinks that there has never been a better time to be no one at all, fading in with the background of all of their hopes, coming true.

  
  
iv.  
  


Phil is twenty-eight when he first steps off the island and out into the world.

As ever, it's Gary who brings it up. Phil and Paul are having a game of table tennis in the lounge when he walks in and says, "Scholesy, bugger off. Phil's got winegums in the fridge. Top shelf, back right corner." 

"He can stay," Phil protests. Paul holds Gary's gaze for one second, tilts his head towards Phil as if to look at him then thinks the better of it. The door snaps at his heels as he leaves. 

"I talked to the manager," Gary says.

Phil drops the ball he's holding. It falls, strangely, without a sound. 

"I know you'd never say it and he knows you'd never say it, which is why I had to." Gary exhales, nods at the sofa. Silently Phil sits down next to him. 

He's kind of known this was coming, after David left, then Nicky. But they would walk into any other team, while he still lives in a shadow who won't let him make his own mistakes. "We'll go over on Friday," it continues, oblivious. "You can hash it out with him then." 

Phil tilts his head at Gary and says nothing. Gary seems to fade a little under his stare, but firms his jaw. "Philip." A hand moves almost to pat his shoulder, to draw him into a half-hug, but draws itself back as quickly as it rose. "You know this isn't enough." 

And deep down Phil knows it isn't, this sitting on the bench week-in-week-out waiting for his chance like a nineteen-year-old all over again. If he hasn't earned a spot by now he's never going to. Yet he wonders if the positions had been reversed, if it'd been Gary out and Phil always playing, whether Gary would have valued the red plastic seats of the Manchester United bench to a starting place anywhere else in the world. If that would have been enough.

Gary sees and nods, silently.

"All right." Phil stands up. "I have to go check on Scholesy. I was saving those winegums for the kids, and by kid I don't mean a thirty-year-old ginger berk." 

He leaves. Gary watches him go. Neither will be the last time. 

  
  


It's more painful than he thinks it would be. 

So it's ironic that he doesn't actually remember most of what happens; just Sir Alex's face, grave but kind, the light in the kitchen glinting off his spectacles; Julie crying  _ we love it here we don't want to leave _ , Mrs Ferguson serving them tea. He doesn't remember contracts or money or the mention of a Merseyside club until Moyes is on the phone, his Scottish burr strangely familiar.

What's left of them come to see him off. The three musketeers, Phil thinks, no room for D'artagnan. Giggsy and Gary have done this before, and their practice shows in the easy smiles and light goodbyes. Phil turns to Paul, and it's a sudden twinge of regret that reminds him he'll never faff around in his room again. Paul is looking at his feet. 

"Don't turn too Scouse," he says.

Phil rolls his eyes. "Being related to Gaz probably gives me inherently anti-Scouse blood cells." 

"I  _ will  _ kill you," his brother promises from the side. 

Paul grins up at him, his eyes oddly soft and sad. "Well, then. Do me a favour? Your first derby, spend it on Gerrard's arse yelling that I'm better than him." 

Phil bursts out laughing and ruffles Paul's hair affectionately. He knows he hates it when people do that, but Paul doesn't seem to mind this time, almost arching into Phil's hand like a cat. 

Then he's in the car with his bags and his piecemeal heart, driving towards a place where blue is the sun that rises.   
  
  
  


"H'lo?"

"Scholesy?"

" _ Phil _ ?"

"Yeah." 

"Phil, you sod, it's three a.m. I do  _ not  _ need more than one Neville calling me at three a.m." 

"I'm sorry, Scholesy. I needed to talk. To someone. About anything." 

The change in Paul's voice is so fast and subtle Phil almost doesn't notice it. "What'd you have for dinner?" 

"Spag bol. Before you ask, from Tesco, and no, I don't know how to turn on the stove." 

"My offer to teach you the magic of instant coffee still stands." 

"It's supposed to be instant," Phil protests, glaring daggers at the kettle that sits across the counter. "How is having to know how to boil water instant?" 

"It's flipping a switch, Phil, it's not fucking rocket science." 

"Might as well be." It's been a week. Phil swallows. "They call me the Manc." 

"Is it because you are?" Paul says dryly.

"No, you wanker, that's not what I meant." 

"I know what you meant." Paul sighs and Phil can imaging him rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, Phil. They can laugh all they like, but they haven't got a jot on you. All right? You just have to work harder and be better than them. And you always do that, and you always come through." 

"Not at United," Phil says, feeling ten inches tall. 

"That wasn't your fault," Paul snaps sharply, so defensive that Phil blinks in confusion. He pauses and when he speaks again it's quieter. "There were other things, that's all. It happens. Not your fault." 

"But - "

"But nothing, Phil. Don't make me go all motivational speaker on your arse. You're a great player, you're a great guy, and you should know that. And if you don't - well - I'll always be - here to tell you." 

It feels like there's something weighted underneath that sentence, but before Phil can peg on to what it is, Paul rushes through. "Now, will you go the fuck to bed? You're making me worried." 

"Gaz is always up late and he never makes you worried," Phil points out. Paul seems to almost-stammer, but catches himself. 

"That's because he can make coffee." 

"Knob."

"Twat. Call you Friday, okay?"

"A'right. Bye, Scholesy." He pauses. "Thanks." 

"Phil?"

His name is said so quick Phil isn't sure if it's just a gust of air at first. "Yeah?"

"Why'd you choose that shirt number?" 

Phil chuckles, not expecting that question. He couldn't play at a club with no number eighteen to remind him of red hair and red shirts. It'd been the easiest part of all this, in the end. "Same number as the best player on the planet." 

He can feel Paul smirking. "Best player, eh?" 

"Yeah." He waits till Paul's hung up, then mumbles into the phone, "best friend." 

 

 

v.

 

Phil is thirty-seven when he becomes complete. 

It's hot in Brazil but the BBC asked if he wanted to go and Gary was already going, so Phil packed his bags and asked the kids to wish him luck. It turns out that a knack for commentary doesn't run in the Neville family as much as you'd think.

He reads the first website and doesn't bother looking at the rest. The pop-up numbers from twitter lie dormant under the notifications tab. Butty sends him an old picture of him sleeping on the team bus and Phil has to google 'middle finger emoticon' for an adequate response.

The next game it's worse because more people have cottoned on, and even Gary drops by his hotel just to check how he's doing.

"Shouldn't you be checking on how England's doing?" Phil snipes, the first time he's ever said anything of the sort, least of all to the person he's just said it to. He regrets it immediately, but Gary just bites his lip and leaves.

In a way, he's not surprised when there's a knock on the door and he opens it to find Paul.

"What time did you get here?" he asks, letting Paul in. 

"This morning." The sun's going down now, tilting gently over the horizon. "Retirement's great, innit? Get to go wherever I feel like." 

"Can't believe you retired from international football so that you wouldn't have to travel, and here you are with them again." 

"Don't make me say 'lol' unironically, Phil. I don't care about bloody England." 

"'Course not. Silly me. You don't care about anything." 

Paul smirks and looks at Phil only when Phil's not looking at him. "How is it?" 

Phil collapses onto the sofa. "Not great, to be honest." 

"It'll get better." 

"How do you know?" 

"I know everything." Paul flops down next to him and grins irreverently. 

They don't say anything for a while, then Phil whistles slowly, mimicing the path of a falling bomb nearing the end of its life.

"I miss not being noticed," he says, staring at the skyline just visible out the window. "Funny, that. Fame - infamy - comes and it's all about how fucking bad I am as a commentator, not about football or anything. I wish I could be normal again. Just transparent in the background, where no one ever saw me. I suppose that's what'll happen after this. Back into obscurity, the Class of '92 member who wasn't really in the Class of '92. Back to no one noticing." 

A gentle breeze wafts in through the window.

"You daft sod," Paul says quietly. "I do. Always have done, haven't I?"

Phil looks up, startled. Paul's blue-grey eyes burn holes into him like the sun (like they do to no one else). Phil blinks and looks away, millions of thoughts and memories and understandings crashing into his head one on top of the other. Custard creams and coffee.  _ You think I'd fly out here for just any old twat? _ At last, he realises. You don't need anybody to care about you, and you don't need to care about anything. Just one. Just one.

Paul tilts towards Phil a little, gives him an awkward smile, as if he doesn't know if he should.

"I do," he says again, curling in to lean against Phil's chest, and Phil's arm instinctively goes to circle around him. Neither of them say a word, just sit there silent, Phil acutely aware of the weight on his heart as he breathes. 

_ Scholesy _ , he thinks, and the name echoes in his head like a distant bell ringing in a new day. Like the last piece of a jigsaw, falling into place.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I know I knowwwwwwwwwww it's not great :((( I just felt like writing something and this happened and mehhhh >.>  
> 2\. Phil did go on A Question of Sport in 2014 and totally owned it - 'In which year did Watford beat Plymouth Argyle in the semi-final' ''84' DAMN phiL I like to think the boys were watching together and texting him non stop  
> 3\. Phil is the first person to start running, even before Ole scores; I always found that very sweet, idk (I can't find the footage online but [have him wildly screaming](https://youtu.be/GAhjG0KdieQ?t=2m10s))  
> 4\. Gaz and Sir Alex talk about Phil's leaving differently - this is closer to Sir Alex's version - but Gaz definitely went to talk to Sir Alex because Phil would never  
> 5\. I was watching the FA Cup final for research and Sir Alex picking Phil to play was a lie......Irwin was out through suspension so he had no choice LMAO oh poor poor Phil  
> The shirt number thing is [ENTIRELY REAL](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/226188280931184640) (pls click this and die with me)  
> 6\. Phil was slated for his world cup commentary but.......y'know.........I'd rather have jokes about him on twitter than him at Valencia now hahahhha ha ha ha /sad  
> 7\. I stole the band of Manchester boys line from Shaz (pls read and weep w me)  
> 8\. For Julija happy very very very belated birthday love <333  
> 9\. Thank you for reading <3


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